


The Chair

by orphan_account



Category: Star Trek (2009), Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, But only a little bit au, I'm Sorry, Kinky, M/M, Mild S&M, PWP, Smut, there is chulu if you look hard enough, this is really bad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-31
Updated: 2013-01-31
Packaged: 2017-11-27 17:18:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/664481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim has a habit of sitting in the Captain's chair.<br/>Slight AU where Spock remains captain for a little bit longer, and Jim is first mate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Chair

“Get out of the chair.”  
Jim had a thing for the captain’s chair. He’d settle in it while Spock was pacing round the bridge, and sit and glower, issuing instruction with one laidback point of his finger. He sat with his legs sprawled apart, slumped far down as if captaining the Enterprise was the easiest thing in the world. Spock didn’t actually like sitting in the chair that much. He always felt restless while staying still, and wanted to pace the deck, able to look over everyone’s shoulder and see what they were doing. Plus, (however illogical the thought was), physically moving during a crisis made him feel like he was doing something. He’d examined whether or not he should force himself to sit in the chair in order to make him overcome this logical bias, but had decided that having a captain who felt useless and frustrated was worse than having a captain with one slightly illogical quirk. Being illogical was really the only logical thing to do.  
Truthfully, though he hated to admit it (why though? It was merely admitting the truth. There was nothing to hate about that), the chair suited Jim. Jim was an attractive man, he knew, but the chair brought out something else in him. In it, he had the look of a brooding god surveying his domain. He exuded a natural regal air that Spock knew he did not. Spock had the command of a particularly strict teacher. Jim had the aura of a leader.  
Maybe that was why Spock was so nervous when he saw Jim in the chair on the bridge during crisis situations. And maybe that was why he was even more nervous when he wondered in to the bridge at a late hour – “Insomnia’s a bitch,” Dr McCoy had said, “but there’s not much I can do about it.” – and seen the top of Jim’s golden head over the back.  
“Jim.”  
Jim spun round to face him. He was in his sweats and a t-shirt, looking utterly unconcerned, with that an expression of challenging mock innocence on that battered face. Spock felt a tiny, tiny urge to add another scar to it.  
“Jim, you are in the Captain’s chair.”  
“Oh,” Jim looked around. “Oh, this is the Captain’s chair?”  
“You are quite aware that it is.”  
“Dammit. I thought it was that one over there.”  
“Get out.”  
“Why? You’re not using it.”  
“It’s symbolic, and you can’t sit in it.” He tried to change his voice to be slightly gentler. “Go to bed, Jim.”  
But from the way Jim folded his arms and put his feet up, Spock could tell that Jim had started on a train of thought, and now nothing would get him to give up. “Aren’t symbols illogical, Captain?” He leant forward. “In fact, isn’t having a special chair only the Captain can sit in an illogical idea? I mean, it’s just like any other chair. It doesn’t mean anything. Sitting in it doesn’t make me the Captain.”  
“The fact that you aren't the Captain is what means you can’t sit in it.”  
“It’s illogical to not allow someone to sit in a chair you’re not sitting in.”  
“Please leave, Jim.”  
“Try and fault my logic. Go on, try.”  
“Leave.”  
“No.”  
Spock snapped. “Get out of the chair, Jim.”  
Jim smirked. “Make me.” 

“You did –“  
“Gah.”  
“ – technically –“  
“Fuck. You.”  
“Ask for this.”  
Spock was straddling Jim, one hand pulling him up towards him with by his t-shirt, the other reaching for Jim’s neck. Jim was flushed red, desperately holding him off, breathing hard with exertion and shirt riding up over his stomach. With his free hand, he was still clinging obstinately to the back of the chair.  
“Jim Kirk,” hissed Spock. “I have never met a man more irrational than you.”  
“Better to be irrational than a cold son of a bitch.”  
“Considering your probable intellect, that’s a fairly impressive insult.”  
Jim trashed under Spock, trying to grab hold of him, but Spock held him off. Jim’s chest was trembling and Spock could feel between his thighs that Jim’s muscles were taut as wire.  
“Now Jim, I will let you go, but only on one agreement.” Jim bucked wildly under him in protest, but Spock ignored it. “Firstly, you will respect my authority as Captain and refrain from publicly protesting at my orders. Secondly, you will desist from issuing commands I have not approved. And thirdly ,” – he bought his face very close to Jim’s – “you will stop sitting in my damn chair.”  
Jim laughed. “And what if I refuse your agreement? You’ll keep me here till morning?”  
“I will knock you unconscious and have you thrown off this ship for mutiny.”  
“Again? You don’t get very creative with your punishments, do you?”  
“I’m sure I could think of a more creative punishment for you,” he said  
“Never thought I’d see a Vulcan get kinky,” spat Jim  
Spock slapped him across the face.  
Jim gasped, and stopped struggling. The shock on his face bought Spock out from the angry mist that had slowly started to envelope him. He stood up and straightened himself out.  
“I apologise deeply for my actions.”  
Jim lay in a slightly crumpled heap in the chair, shirt still half off, and stared at him with swollen lips half parted.  
“I suggest that we both forget about the events of tonight and go to bed.”  
Jim’s expression remained static, but eventually his neck moved in something that might have been a nod.  
“Once again, First Officer, I apologise for my inappropriate conduct.”  
He left Jim still in the chair, eyes fixed ahead of him. Normally, he would have continued to wander the enterprise till it was time to dress and resume his position as captain, but tonight he went straight to bed. He lay stiff as a board, eyes screwed tight, trying to force himself to sleep.

If the next day Jim’s eyes were searching and hard when Spock looked at him, he ignored it. He also ignored the way that Jim looked at him when he thought he wasn’t looking, a look that was utterly impossible for Spock to read. It was the same one he’d given him last night as he was leaving.  
The one big thing he definitely ignored was the way his stomach tightened with electricity whenever he thought of the sound of Jim being slapped last night.  
And still he caught Jim looking at him, sometimes concerned, sometimes wondering, sometimes angry. Sometimes Jim had his perfect lips parted, sometimes he was biting into an apple with a loud wet crunch that made Spock draw breath.  
He sat in the chair – not looking at Jim, not noticing the way his tongue flicked over his lips when he was concentrating, not even slightly glancing at him through the glass screens – and looked over at Chekhov and Sulu. Sulu was running his fingers lightly over the back of Chekhov’s hands, making him giggle and blush.  
That was it. Muttering excuses about needing a little time to think, Spock stepped into the elevator and put his head in his hands.  
It wasn’t until the lift stopped halfway between floors and he felt someone tap his shoulder that he realised Jim had followed him into the elevator.  
“Hands are Vulcan erogenous zones, right?”  
Spock tried to step away and found himself backed into the wall.  
“So what happened last night was just a big kiss on my cheek, wasn’t it?” He stepped closer, his face unmoving.  
“A big, fat, sloppy kiss-“  
“Do you want me to slap you again?” said Spock, trying to sound calm.  
“Yes.” Jim’s reply was instant.  
So Spock slapped him.  
Jim made the same gasping sound he’d made last night, and stumbled back a few paces. “Again.”  
This time his hand made an audible hiss in the air before the crack. Jim fell against the wall and Spock grabbed the scruff of his shirt and pushed him against it, pulling his hair so his head tipped back to expose his throat. Jim was panting, his face twisted in a way Spock couldn’t understand, or didn’t want to understand.  
The first kiss was a messy clash of teeth and fury and wanting, and Spock was ripping off Jim’s shirt and biting at his collarbone. Jim grabbed him and fought back, nails scraping at his skin until his shirt was off too and they were falling to the floor. Spock pushed him down so he was underneath him and straddled him with his thighs, ripping off his own shirt, and Jim bucked against him the way he had last night, but this time there was something else in that movement, a delicious touch of desperation. He slapped him again, so fast his hand made a noise in the air, and Jim gave a little moan. He tried to sit up, but he pushed him back down onto the floor again and stared at him, winded, breathless, his hair wild.  
“Bastard,” spat Spock. There were a million harsher, cruller insults in Vulcan, but that word seemed to suit Jim. Jim just laughed.  
“You’re so funny when you’re angry.”  
He kissed him again just to shut him up and tried to stifle the noises he wanted to make. Jim didn’t seem to have the same problems. He gave a little groan and licked his neck until Spock pulled him closer and rolled his hips , desperate for some friction and addicted to the feeling of Jim’s skin against his.  
He touched Jim’s bulge through his pants, producing a noise that sounded suspiciously like a whimper. He laughed softly, and then there was a blur of buttons and zips and wanting and Jim was hot and hard in his palm, blue eyes were full of animal desperation. Spock stroked him, softly, then faster and harder. He bit at his neck, flicking his eyes up to enjoy Jim's started expression.  
Jim was panting audibly now, chest shuddering up and down, as Spock jerked him off rough and greedy and drank in the beautiful noises he was making, , a mess of whines and moans and syllables that might have been his name. Spock moved his other hand into Jim’s hair and brushed their lips together and Jim gave a gasp that sounded almost painfully hot and thrust up desperately into his hand. Little high pitched noises came from the back of his throat. With one hand he reached up and raked his nails through his hair.  
When Jim came, it was with an incoherent shout that Spock kissed off his lips. His cum splattered his stomach and he collapsed on the floor, still shaking, breathing deeply, his soft pink lips trembling. When he turned his eyes to Spock he had to stop and catch his breath for a few seconds. Jim’s eyes were intense and startled, with something nameless in them that made his heart stop for a few seconds. Then he closed his eyes and lay back.  
Spock watched his chest rise and fall for a few seconds. Then he stood up, pulling on his shirt, and pressed the button to make the elevator move again.  
“Wait,” slurred Jim from the floor. “You’re not done.”  
Spock gave him a tight smile. “Mr Kirk, I think the sooner this incident ends, the better. We can resume our normal duties and habits from tomorrow.”  
Jim scowled. “So this is it, then. One handjob on the elevator floor.”  
“Did I ever say that this was a one off incident?” he said, tutting. “You really should learn to listen to your captain, Mr Kirk.”  
As Spock strode out of the doors, he could’ve sworn he heard Kirk mutter “Pointy eared bastard.”  
He smiled.


End file.
